A-Splendid-Ruin(91)

“Stupid,” he offered, leaning in. I felt the warmth of his breath as he touched my cheek. “At least you see it, unlike most of them. That picture you drew at Coppa’s said pretty well what you think of it all. Sit very still. I don’t want to take out an eye.”

I would have jerked back in surprise if he had not held me firm. “You saw that? Ellis didn’t.”

He was deft and quick; the knife pressed gently, I heard the faint snap of the stitch and forced myself not to make a face at the strange sense of the thread pulling through my skin. “Farge is an idiot. Haven’t I said that before? Anyway, you’re in the wrong crowd. You should be with the Hoffmans and the McKays. That set at least tries to make the world better, with all their charity work. Some of it’s misguided, but at least they make an attempt.”

My aunt had once done the same, Goldie had told me. How my cousin had objected when I’d thought to do some charity work myself. How my uncle had objected. Now I understood that they wanted to keep me close and isolated, where they could manipulate both me and society as they wished.

“I met Mrs. Hoffman once. At the Cliff House.”

Another press and pull. His fingers were warm and sure, his hand cupped my cheek. I’d not felt such tenderness in so very long that it was mesmerizing. He plucked another stitch. “Don’t tell me it was that time you were with Belden and the others.”

“It was. Why?”

“Because you were drunk. I’m sure you made a fine impression.”

“It was less tedious with champagne.”

“That’s why Ned Greenway makes a fortune selling it. There.” Dante sat back with a satisfied expression. “At least you don’t look sewn together now.”

I touched the wound, a puffy ridge, but smooth now without the roughness of the stitches. “Thank you. I had no idea you had so many talents.”

“That’s me. A veritable treasure trove.” He smiled, such an engaging, beautiful smile, one so real, one that asked nothing of me, and suddenly I felt unbalanced, as if the ground had shifted beneath my feet.

Hastily, embarrassed for no reason I could say, I looked away. “You should eat before it gets cold.”

“Oh yes.” He picked up his fork. But I could see his thoughts grow distant, and he kept looking at my sketchbook as if something there troubled him. I waited until I couldn’t stand it any longer, and then I said, “What’s wrong?”

He blinked. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Why are you looking at my drawing that way?”

“I’m just thinking . . . What did you intend to do with these?”

There it was, the question that had plagued me, asked so directly that there was no way to avoid my own uncertainty, or the fact that these drawings held my entire history: who I thought I was and who I meant to be, a future I had only just begun to consider before Blessington buried it—or so I thought. At Dante’s question, the possibility teased again.

“All of San Francisco has to be rebuilt,” Dante went on. “The interior architects that are here can’t possibly handle the work. Farge will be useless now without these, of course, and that means everyone will be looking for people like you. Maybe . . .” Dante trailed off tentatively. “I don’t know if that’s something you might want, but if you do . . . maybe I could help you make it happen.”

“But I’m a woman.”

“Needs must. Desperate people make choices they might not otherwise. People want their houses built now. Offer your services. See who takes you up.”

“I—I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“Aren’t you?” He gestured to the books. “You’re more than ready. You’re just afraid. Think about it, May. Look—” He turned the pages quickly, stopping at the drawing of the library. “Farge didn’t change a single line. Not one. If he thought they were good enough to call them his, why can’t the person who really drew them?”

Again, that flicker of hope, or desire—along with fear. “I don’t know—”

“You have a gift. It would be a sin to waste it.”

His belief was tantalizing. Still . . .

“Let’s do this: let’s run an advert in the Bulletin. We’ll print one of these drawings to show them what you can do—what do you want to call your firm?”

“If I did that, the Sullivans would know I’m alive,” I protested.

Dante met my gaze. “They’ll know that anyway, when I write the articles. They’ll know it when you take your inheritance back. How long do you mean to hide?”

“Until we can publish my story, until I have my inheritance, I can’t risk that they’ll find me. They’ve hired a private detective. If I publish an advertisement, they’ll know exactly where I am.”

“We’ll ask that inquiries be sent to the Bulletin offices.”

“Then Ellis will know it has something to do with you, and he knows where to find you, doesn’t he? He knows who Alphonse Bandersnitch really is.”

“I can manage Ellis Farge.”

“But he belongs to the Sullivans now, and you don’t know them as I do.”

“No, I know them better. Wasn’t I the one to tell you? They’re not as clever as we are together. They won’t find you here.”